


fall through the stars

by melk24



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, F/F, Instagram, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 19:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18879730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melk24/pseuds/melk24
Summary: “What’s your Miro’s last name?” Denis asks.“Heiskanen,” Roope says, staring mutely at the Insta DM screen. Miro hasn’t sent anything else since, and there’s nothing to indicate she’s typing. “Why? You know her?”“No, no,” Denis says, waving her hand next to Roope’s face, “she got drafted to Dallas a while ago. Must be coming down for the season.”“Oh, shit,” Roope says, and then likes the message from Miro just for good measure.





	fall through the stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stromesquad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stromesquad/gifts).



> oh boy. i can't believe this is my first fic of 2019 but also i totally, totally can.
> 
> this was for stars rarepair exchange and it was such a blast to write this; ali, i hope you enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing!
> 
> title is from pynk by janelle monae for reasons!

Roope has two rules about people that slide into her DMs. They are as follows:

  1. All men are blocked no matter the message, and
  2. Only pretty girls get replies.



It’s been serving her pretty well so far.

Of course, in Dallas, it always seems more likely for a pretty girl to simply have a question about where Roope got a certain jacket, or hat, or picked those sunglasses up from, and what was her opinion on thrifting from antique stores?

“They never want to flirt with me,” she whines to Jason every time, who always just nods and goes back to her textbook, because Jason “studies” and refuses to do anything more fun, like help Roope through her straight girl crisis.

Except this pretty girl — this pretty girl she knows.

“Jason,” she whines, standing in the door to their room in the house, half melting down the door frame, “Jason. Jason. Miro DM’d me.”

“Right, Miro. Cool.”

“Jason!” She says, flopping down onto her roommate’s bed. She’s reading something that looks horrifyingly like a textbook. “Jason. Miro. From home, Miro.”

This has Jason looking up. “Your first girlfriend, Miro?”

Roope groans, rolling over onto her back. She flops her head over the edge of the bed so that she can still look at Jason, albeit upside down. “We were 12, we were not girlfriends,” she protests, the same way she always does, and this actually has Jason capping her highlighter.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admits, and Jason sighs, pushing her chair away from her desk.

“You should respond,” she says, like it’s that simple, and Roope supposes that when you’re dating someone who graduated two years ago and already has a stable job and an apartment and you’re just waiting to graduate so you can get married, everything seems that simple.

“It’s not that simple,” she says, rolling back the right way so that she can pull her phone out of her back jeans pocket. “I can’t just respond to her like every other girl! Oh my god, Jason, what if she’s asking me about my shirt in that last post, I got it from that one thrift store in Helsinki and I bet she knows, oh my god.”

“First of all,” Jason says, and now Roope can see how she’s folding her arms. “If it’s from a thrift store, how would she recognize it? One time only pieces, right?”

She’s distracted from her distress by the sudden rush of elation. “Oh my  _ god _ ,” she sighs, pushing her elbows into the mattress so that she can press her hands against her heart, “you did learn something! Oh, I finally taught you something!”

“Second of all,” Jason continues like Roope hadn’t ever said anything, “haven’t you read the message by now?”

“No!” She shrieks despite herself, collapsing back down onto the bed. “Insta has automatic read receipts, I can’t just read it and then have nothing to say!”

Jason sighs. “You realize your problems aren’t normal human problems, right?”

“Does that mean you’ll help me?”

“Yeah,” Jason capitulates, and Roope does a little cheer, “gimme your phone. Gimme.”

Roope hands it over unlocked, and Jason swipes around a few times. Working magic, Roope supposes.

“Roope,” she finally says, and her head shoots up.

“That’s it? That’s the message? Just my name? Why would she send me my own name?”

“No, Jesus,” Jason says, turning the phone around, “Roope, I can’t read that.”

“Oh,” she says, and takes the phone from Jason’s hands. It’s Finnish, because of course it’s Finnish. “Oh, uh. She’s just saying hi. And asking if I’m still in Dallas.”

“Yeah, I got the Dallas part,” Jason deadpans, but she’s smiling just a little when Roope looks at her. Like, really only a little, but still a smile. “So? Still nervous?”

“Yes!” She replies, but types out  _ yes haha _ with one hand before closing her eyes and hitting the send button. “Oh, god. Oh god I sent it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Jason says before smoothly plucking the phone back from Roope’s hands and swiping around another few times. “You were on airplane mode. Try again.”

“Why was I on airplane mode?” She grumbles, but sure enough, Insta is giving her an error message, and she taps it a few times until the message has gone through.

Jason shrugs, and when Roope looks up from her phone, she sees that her roommate has already gone back to her desk. “It’s the only way to check messages on Instagram without read receipts.”

Her lower jaw goes a little slack. “If you were not already basically engaged to Tyler,” she says, “I would marry you right now. Here. On the spot.”

“Uh huh,” Jason says, but Roope can see the little tiny spots of pink up on her cheeks.

“I owe you eight million dollars,” she effuses, and then bounces off the bed and downstairs.

“Miro DM’d me,” she announces to the first floor at large, then sits on the edge of the table where Remi and Denis are taking shots of — something. “Ew, guys, no alcohol on the first floor.”

“It’s not alcohol, it’s kombucha,” Remi says, before slamming back one of the glasses full of something that was most definitely green. “Ugh. Denis, take this one off the list. Also, Miro-Miro? The girl you made us watch the fucking World Hockey shit for?”

“Definitely that one,” Denis says, and hands Roope a shot glass. “Here, try. Lavender flavored.”

She tries it. “Tastes like foaming soap,” she says, and Denis nods thoughtfully before scratching something off on the sheet of paper next to her.

Roope’s phone buzzes again. She screams and nearly falls off the table in her scramble to free the device, swiping it open with shaking hands. “Oh my god,” she says, and now Remi and Denis both have stood up to peer over her shoulder. “Oh shit, fuck, Miro’s coming to Dallas in a few days.”

“To SMU?” Remi asks. “But we don’t have a hockey team. Right? Right? I’m not missing out on lusting after hockey boys?”

“Hockey boys ugly,” Denis says, then squints at the screen. “What’s your Miro’s last name?”

“Heiskanen,” Roope says, staring mutely at the Insta DM screen. Miro hasn’t sent anything else since, and there’s nothing to indicate she’s typing. “Why? You know her?”

“I’m going to ignore how dumb that question was for your own sake,” Remi says.

“No, no,” Denis says, waving her hand next to Roope’s face, “she got drafted to Dallas a while ago. Must be coming down for the season.”

“Oh, shit,” Roope says, and then likes the message from Miro just for good measure.

 

So maybe Miro wasn’t her girlfriend, because she’s absolutely right in saying you can’t have girlfriends when you’re 12, that doesn’t even make sense, but she was definitely Roope’s — something. Best friend, maybe, until Miro started getting really into hockey and Roope broke her elbow and had to sit a season out and then never really wanted to get back.

Whatever. She would have made a terrible jock anyway.

Maybe they would’ve been girlfriends if they’d kept talking after Miro had moved to Helsinki to play. But by then Roope was looking at colleges in America, and starting out on Instagram, and at that point they were just too different.

At least, that’s what Roope though. Miro, though, seemed to remember her enough to be the first person in Dallas she’d reach out to. And like, was it probably because Roope was the only person she knew? Sure, but Roope was willing to bend the truth a bit.

Anything to satisfy the sudden rush of electricity she was getting every time she got a new message from Miro.

 

Three days later, she’s sprinting through the halls like a woman possessed. “Have you seen my pink skirt?” She asks, shoving her head into Joel’s room. “Hey, hey, have you seen my pink skirt?”

“Heard you the first time,” Joel says, pulling a headphone out of one ear and sitting up from the floor. “Nah, don’t think so. The neon one, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I wore it to Phi Delt’s ski party,” she says, “and I know I wore it home but I can’t find it.”

“Check Jason’s laundry,” Joel offers, putting her headphone back in, “sometimes she’ll grab your stuff for you.”

“You’re the best house man in the whole world,” Roope says, before spinning on one socked heel and running back to her own room. Jason’s not there, but she pulls her roommate’s hamper out of her closet and sure enough, Roope’s pink skirt is buried at the bottom. It doesn’t even smell like beer, which is such a win. Her luck isn’t too bad today at all.

She grabs her sunglasses at the last moment, jamming them on her head and hoping they don’t catch in her braid because she’d spent a lot of time getting it perfect, alright. By the time she makes it downstairs, Jason and Dillon are both shuffling out of the kitchen with French toast.

“Shit,” she says, grinding to a halt right in front of the door, “who cooked?”

“Trader Joe’s,” Dillon says through a mouth of toast. “Where are you off to?”

She straightens the cardigan around her waist. “Miro and I are getting brunch.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Already?”

Roope shrugs. “She offered. Asked me to show her good places in the city.”

“So you’re taking her to First Watch,” Jason offers, and Roope squares her shoulder and huffs. She does not have to answer incriminating questions.

“Whatever,” Dillon says, apparently incapable of not talking without eating at the same time, “but if you get the chia bowl, please bring me your extras.”

“Don’t be dumb. The chia bowl doesn’t go with her outfit today.”

Roope glowers at Jason, but it’s not like she’s wrong. “I hate you both,” she says instead, then looks outside. “Hey, can one of you take a picture of me in front of my car?”

 

By the time she’s at brunch, the car photo has 300 likes and her DMs have been flooded with even more gross frat boys. But at least the skirt fits her current palette.

She parks her Jeep in front of the MiCo and hops out into the shopping center. It’s hot, but it’s September in Dallas, and it’s always hot then. She keeps her sunglasses down as she walks into First Watch, flipping her braids over her shoulder as she walks in.

“Hi,” she says to the hostess, “I have a table for two? Under Roope?”

“Roope?” Another voice says, and she knows before turning that it’s Miro, because only someone from home could’ve said her name right like that.

She’s right; it is Miro, leaning up against the front window. Roope’s first thought is that she’s cut her hair, which is stupid, because she spent all of last night Googling her and knows exactly what Miro’s hair looks like now, but it’s shorter than she’d ever seen, resting gently at her jaw.

“You look nice,” she says lamely, but Miro does look nice, if subdued next to Roope. Miro smiles, almost shy, and now that just won’t do.

“It’s so good to see you,” she says this time, and before Miro can do anything, leans in for a hug. Miro is stiff in her arms for only a second, and then she relaxes, and Roope is beaming when they seperate.

“Come on,” she says, “I want to show you my favorite place. You asked, right?”

“I did,” Miro says, and it’s bizarrely comforting to hear someone speak back to her in Finnish. She doesn’t miss home often, but it feels like Miro has swept in and brought the entire North with her.

She gets the lemon pancakes, because they have strawberries, and because Jason may have mocked her, but she does have a brand to maintain. Miro, though, gets the chia bowl, and Roope almost feels proud. But like, whatever.

“So you’re gonna be around for like, real now, huh?” She asks once the waitress has brought her juice. It’s red and yellow, perfect, and when she swirls it it goes pink around the middle.

Miro shrugs. “I think so. I mean, I hope. I’m still trying to make the roster, you know. No promises there.”

“But you’re like, great,” Roope protests, “I mean, you are, right? Like you got drafted pretty high?”

“Third,” Miro says, but she’s blushing when she does, looking down at the table to push her silverware around. “But it’s, uh. Not that simple. I’m still pretty young.”

“Not that young,” Roope insists, and sure, it’s easy to forget that Miro was two years younger than her, but especially now it seems like Miro is the adult. Just like always.

“Whatever. I’m like, super impressed,” she says, leaning back just as their food gets there.

Miro has graduated to playing with the straw wrapper. “Thanks,” she says, soft around the edges, “it, uh. Means a lot. Coming from you.”

She ignores the way her stomach swoops lower, into her toes, and looks down at the plates in front of her. She’s struck, suddenly, and pulls her phone out. “Hey, will you take a picture of me for Insta?”

“What?” Miro asks, but Roope is already pushing her plates around.

“It’s pretty easy,” she says, handing Miro her phone across the table and getting her sunglasses on top of her head again. “Just like, take a bunch, I’ll move around and stuff.”

“Right,” Miro says, and she doesn’t sound confident, but she’s not holding the phone like it’s going to bite her, which is better than half of her sorority sisters.

“Make sure to get the drink,” she says, and then turns her head to the side a bit, looking through her lashes at the camera.

Miro’s eyes are narrowed in focus, but she’s clearly taking pictures, so Roope lets herself lean into it, laughing over the stack of pancakes, blowing a kiss toward the phone.

“Here,” Miro says abruptly, handing it back across the table. “I, uh. Took a bunch.”

“They’re great!” She says, and she means it; there’s a good amount of light from the lamp behind her, and the pink cushions of the bench compliment it all perfectly. “You’re the best. I’m gonna get so many likes on these.”

“So — Instagram, huh?” Miro asks, taking a bite from her food the minute Roope puts the phone away.

She shrugs, poking at the pancakes. “It’s fun, you know? And everyone at school does it.”

“Right,” Miro says, like she doesn’t quite believe Roope. “Well, all your pictures are very nice.”

“Oh,” Roope teases, “all of them?”

Miro squints at her, like she’s confused. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve been following you forever.”

“Oh,” she says again, although rationally she knows Miro had to have been following her. But there’s something about knowing Miro has seen all of her pictures that makes this whole brunch suddenly feel a bit more interesting.

“Then you must know like, basically everything about me,” she says back, trying to regain her footing. Miro laughs, and it’s soft, more like a giggle, but she puts her whole body into it. Roope has to take a very long sip of her juice.

“Not everything,” Miro says, smiling just enough that Roope can see where her front tooth is chipped. She remembers the tournament that had happened in. “I still have questions.”

“Well then,” she says, leaning back into the pillows, “hit me.”

 

She collapses halfway through the door after brunch. “Jason!” She shouts, and her roommate sits up from where she was laying on the couch. “Jason, I think I’m in love.”

“With what? Pancakes or Miro?”

“Miro!” She cries out, then pauses. “Wait, no, definitely both. But you already knew about my long standing affair with pancakes.”

“That’s true,” Jason admits, before standing and coming over to the door, where Roope is basically squatting. Whatever. Exercise, bitch. “You gonna be okay?”

She wails softly. “No, she killed me. She’s perfect. She’s even better than she used to be. And, and, she took pictures of me! Just, took them! And they were so good!”

Jason sticks her hand out, and Roope takes it gratefully, letting the other girl pull her to her feet. “Incredible,” she deadpans, and Roope pouts until Jason sighs.

“I’m very happy for you and your newfound love,” she says, patting Roope on the shoulder. “When are you seeing her again?”

“She asked me to practice on Sunday,” she says, and then covers her face with her hands. “Like, hockey. Oh god.”

“What’s the matter? Didn’t you play hockey for a bit?”

“That’s the problem!” She says, trying not to whine. She’s probably failing, but at least she’s trying. “She plays hockey for real, you know, like as her job, and I just post pretty pictures of myself online, oh god, she’s gonna think I’m the worst.”

Jason squints at her. “Okay, well, first of all she already knows you’re on Instagram. And secondly, like, you’re a student, that’s a job too.”

Roope narrows her eyes. “You say that like I study.”

“Lost cause,” Jason says, already turned away and heading toward the stairs, “you’re a lost cause and I’m not helping you with your date this weekend.”

“Liar!” She cries out, but suddenly she can’t stop repeating the word date to herself.

 

She doesn’t have a jersey, because she’d decided when she’d come to Dallas that she was going to pretend hockey didn’t exist anymore. It was pretty easy in this city, and for a little bit she’d pretended to get into football, and she’d played a year of club lacrosse, but she should’ve known better. Hockey always comes back for you.

So instead, she wears a white jean jacket over a green tube top she has to steal from Joel, who grumbles just enough that Roope knows she doesn’t actually mind. It looks good, especially with the white denim skirt, and that’s enough to get her all the way down to Frisco.

The lot isn’t busy when she gets there, even though she knows she’s a few minutes late. It’s just a random practice during training camp, though; she gets it. In fact, it seems almost shockingly empty the whole time until she finds the tiny rink tucked off to the side. There are people there, sure, but not many, and it’s quiet enough that she can hear the girls on the ice shouting back and forth to each other.

She looks around the small crowd just a bit more before getting settled on the bleachers against the back wall. They’re cold on the underside of her thighs, but she pulls her phone out from the tiny purse she’d grabbed and prepares to settle in.

She’s distracted by a very, very loud sound. So loud, in fact, that she almost drops her phone. When she looks up, Miro is pressed up against the glass, laughing at — at her, actually. She grins back, feeling her face relax, and gives a little wave.

Miro waves back, as enthusiastically as she can with a hockey glove on, and Roope can feel her smile getting wider. She’s still watching when another skater comes out of nowhere, checking Miro hard enough to push her out of the way. Miro, of course, is laughing again, bent half over, shoving at the tall blonde who’s come to crash their moment.

Roope waves at her too, because she’s not a fucking heathen. She has manners.

The girl waves back, and then turns to Miro and drags her into a headlock. Miro is shoving at her but to no avail, and Roope can’t help but laugh back, watching as they skate backward with the taller girl still giving Miro a noogie.

Maybe she’d missed hockey more than she’d thought. What about it.

 

She waits near the back door like Miro tells her to, and straightens off the wall of the parking garage when Miro walks out. Her hair is wet and she’s in workout gear, but she looks — nice. Again. Like always.

“Sorry about Esa,” she says when she reaches Roope, rolling her eyes a little, “she was really excited to see that I had friends.”

“Just friend, actually,” she teases, and Miro giggles, reaching out to swat at her.

“Come on. I’m hungry, and you haven’t finished showing me all of the greatest hits.”

They start walking back to where Roope’s car is, and she pauses halfway out of the garage. “How do you feel about ice cream?”

Miro laughs. “Considering it’s barely noon, we’ll see.”

Roope grins, spinning back to face her and narrowly avoiding getting hit with her own purse. “Perfect. We’re going to Cauldron.”

Miro grins, and then, suddenly, lunges forward to take Roope’s hand. “Sounds perfect,” she says, and Roope only barely avoids falling entirely on her fucking face.

They stay hand-in-hand until the car, when Roope has to let go to get in. She regrets it for only a moment, because Miro makes a beautiful picture in her car, hair tossed a little in the wind that’s still flowing in through the open side.

“You can DJ,” she says, through a dry mouth, and Miro laughs once before playing with the knobs on the radio.

They cycle through every pop station in Dallas while Roope drives back. Cauldron is closer to campus than the rink by far, but sometimes she’ll start singing along and look over to find Miro doing the same, and honestly, that makes the time fly right by.

Cauldron is predictably pretty empty when they get there, but Roope doesn’t mind. “So you have to get the puffle,” she says as they walk in, “it’s like, a waffle as a cone, but it looks all crazy, like a bunch of little pillows.”

“A perfect lunch,” Miro quips, but she orders a scoop of rose in a puffle anyway, so Roope considers it a win.

She’s sitting down to wait when she sees the neon behind Miro’s head. The sign has always been there, perfect block letters spelling out  _ IT’S NOT GONNA LICK ITSELF.  _ The pink shoots through the restaurant, shocking in the afternoon light.

Miro has no more than sat down when Roope gets an idea. “Wait, oh my god,” she says, letting her wallet fall to the table with a clatter, “take a picture of me in front of the sign.”

Miro takes Roope’s phone as if on instinct, and Roope flounces a bit, getting herself set in front of the neon lettering.

“Okay, now,” she says, and Miro obediently starts clicking away. She tries a few different poses before relaxing, walking back over to take the phone back.

“I hope they’re okay,” Miro says, but Roope is already scrolling through, deleting the ones where the neon has washed out her face too much. 

There’s plenty more good than bad, though, and she beams up at Miro. “You did great,” she promises, already pulling up Instagram. “I’m going to hire you, actually. Forget hockey. Be my professional photographer.”

Miro laughs, and Roope is struck by how soft she laughs, how gently her shoulders shake. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says, and then the cashier is calling their names and Miro diverts off to the counter. It gives Roope enough time to post the picture before looking up to see Miro heading back toward her.

“Let’s eat outside,” she stays impulsively when Miro walks back, taking her ice cream. The puffle is warm in her hands through the cardboard case, and she can already feel her mouth watering.

Miro just nods, and they walk out together. Roope makes a beeline for her car, swinging into the driver’s seat. Miro gets comfortable next to her, and for a minute they sit and eat their ice cream together, watching the cars on the highway.

“They want me to go back to Finland for this season,” Miro says suddenly, tearing away at the edges of her puffle. “Play one more year there and then try again.”

“Oh.” Roope tries to hide her disappointment, but she doubts she does a good job. “So you’re not staying?”

Miro shakes her head, soft fringe floating around her face as she does. “No. Not this year.”

Roope sticks her tongue through her teeth for just a second, still able to taste the remnants of her ice cream on her lips. “There’s always next season,” she tries, and Miro gives her such a look she can’t help but laugh.

“Useless,” Miro says, reaching across the car to shove at her shoulder. “Absolutely useless. Maybe I’m glad I’m going home. Don’t have to deal with your face anymore.”

“You like this face,” Roope says on instinct, then hides behind what’s left of her cone.

“Yeah,” Miro says softly, reaching out to push the cone down. “Hey, yeah. I do, kinda.”

She can feel herself turning pink and hopes it’s hidden mostly by her foundation. “Only kinda? Doesn’t seem like glowing reviews.”

Miro snorts and then pulls out her phone, tapping around a few times. Roope’s phone dings softly, and Miro looks up at her. “How’s that for glowing reviews?”

She lifts her phone from her lap and swipes through the Insta notification. There’s a new comment on the neon picture, and she scrolls down until she can see it.

_ i think your face is sweeter than ice cream _ , it says, and when Roope looks back up from her phone, Miro won’t meet her eyes.

“Hey,” she says, then reaches out, tangling her fingers through Miro’s hair like she’s wanted to do since day fucking one. “Hey, Miro. Miro, guess what.”

Miro snorts softly, lifting her head a bit. “What?”

“I think you’re cute too,” she says, and then grins as Miro grins. “Always have.”

“You know,” Miro says, and Roope realizes suddenly they’re both leaning forward, “you were my first kiss.”

“Really?” Roope breathes, and now they’re close enough that she can see the tiniest scar under Miro’s eye. “That’s hilarious. You were mine, too.”

“You weren’t that good.”

“Neither were you.”

Miro laughs. “Should we try again?”

Roope pretends to think for only a moment, tilting her head to the side. “I think so, I think we might have to.”

Miro tastes like roses, and Roope feels pink all the way through.

**Author's Note:**

> the nhl is all girls because i said so. thanks for reading.


End file.
